For if thou strik'st me with thy dart of gold,
I sweare to thee (by Ioues immortall curse)
I haue more in my hart, than in my purse.
The more I weepe, the more he bends his Bow,
For in my hart a golden Shaft I finde:
(Cruell, vnkinde) and wilt thou leaue me so?
Can no remorce nor pittie moue thy minde?
Is Mercie in the Heauens so hard to finde?
Oh, then it is no meruaile that on earth
Of kinde Remorce there is so great a dearth.